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Sienna can still smell the basement.
Old concrete, gun oil, the metallic edge of fear — it clings to her clothes, to her skin, to her lungs. She doesn’t speak the whole way out. She can’t.
Hotch is the first through the door, weapon still drawn until the all-clear. His face is carved from stone — no emotion, no movement wasted. Emily’s close behind him, cursing under her breath as she holsters her gun. Sienna follows a few steps behind, chest tight, the adrenaline fading into something colder: shame.
The drive back to the hotel is silent.
The tyres hum against the wet asphalt, and outside, the night closes in. Emily sits in the passenger seat, arms crossed, jaw clenched so hard she can see the muscle twitch in her cheek. Emily doesn’t look at her.
So she stares out the window instead, counting the flashes of streetlights as they streak across the glass. Hotch drives with that same impossible calm. His knuckles are pale where they grip the wheel, but his breathing never falters. You can tell he’s already rewriting the report in his head — analysing, editing, preparing for the fallout.
No one has to say it out loud: Sienna blew it.
She wasn’t supposed to make contact with the informant alone. She wasn’t supposed to let him see her badge, or her face, or the way her nerves betrayed her for that split second. And now the informant is gone, their cover blown, months of work lost to a single mistake.
Sienna tries not to look at her reflection in the window, but her mind won’t stop repeating the same thing: I ruined it. I ruined it for them.
When Hotch finally parks outside the hotel, the sound of the engine cutting off feels too loud.
The room they get is small, government-issued, soulless — two beds, a chair, walls the colour of dirty porcelain. The hum of the lights buzzes under her skin.
Emily storms in after her and throws her go-bag on the bed with a thud.
“That fucking rat,” she spits, pacing. “That so-called plug doesn’t know his right from his left. What a joke.”
Hotch sets down his gun case with deliberate care. “We should’ve known,” he says, voice low. “The Bureau’s been keeping tabs. It was too easy until then.”
Emily turns sharply, her frustration bleeding through. “Too easy, yeah. Except someone thought flirting would get us what we needed.”
Sienna’s throat tightens. She stares at the carpet. “I didn’t— he recognised me. There wasn’t time to—”
“Prentiss,” Hotch says, calm but firm.
She ignores him, taking a step closer to Sienna. “We all saw the way he was looking at you. You could’ve walked away. Or you could’ve just done absolutely anything except for trying to seduce him.”
Sienna flinches, embarrassed. But also… feeling some other kind of way, “I know.”
Emily’s voice softens for half a second — not with sympathy, but exhaustion. “Do you?”
“Enough,” Hotch cuts in, sharper now. He’s used to this. He and Emily differ significantly in how they handle high-stress situations. Hotch is usually the stoic, firm, steady one. Never falters, never hesitates, a gun could be pointed at his temple, but his face will remain impossible to read. Emily? Well. She’s a bit louder with her thoughts; there’s no filter between that brilliant brain of hers and her dirty, dirty mouth. Sienna knows that, but she also knows better; she knows the pants-shitting panic moment is when Emily gets quiet.
That's why the silence that follows is heavy enough to make her ears ring.
Emily finally exhales, running a hand through her black hair. “We could’ve been dead, Aaron.” At the use of Hotch’s first name, Sienna feels like an intruder in their own hotel room. In their own dynamic. In their own relationship. Even if it’s stupid.
“We’re not,” Hotch replies evenly, his hands going to his temples in a poor attempt to ease the tension. He looks incredibly worn out, and she feels very guilty about it - she’s putting him in an impossible position, she knows that. She knows he should suspend her for what she’s done today, and she gets sick just thinking about it. But he looks impassible.
It’s the kind of steady control that should calm her, but instead it twists something deeper inside. Because Sienna can feel it — the anger he’s holding back, the disappointment he won’t voice. She’d almost prefer if he yelled.
The air after a case is usually never this bad. But this time, everything that could go wrong did, and it's a miracle the three of them made it unscathed. The only noise in the room is Hotch’s hard breathing and Sienna’s fingers fumbling with her jacket zipper. She peels it off slowly, her back to them both, as she tries to breathe through the sting in her eyes.
She hears Emily’s sigh behind her, sharp and uneven. When she turns slightly, Emily is leaning against the dresser, watching her. There’s still fire in her expression, but something else too — something quieter, sadder. Hotch sits on the edge of one of the beds, elbows on his knees. His gaze lingers on Emily before flicking to Sienna. She can feel it, that silent line of communication they’ve perfected over years of working — and loving — together.
Sienna doesn’t have that with them. Not yet.
She’s a part of the team, yes, but the kind of part that still feels removable. She’s the new one, the young one, the one with something to prove. Just another rookie that will probably not make the cut to be a permanent part of the BAU. She tells herself that’s all it is, professional guilt. But the ache in her chest when Emily won’t meet her eyes, or when Hotch’s expression softens for Emily in a way it doesn’t for her — it’s not just that.
She’s tried not to notice the small things: the brush of his hand on Emily’s back in passing, the way she leans into him after a long night, the quiet gravity that exists only between them. She’s tried not to notice how easy it would be for them to kick her out of the equation, like she’s just a planet orbiting around them, a minor body drifting in their gravity, until one day it gets flung into the dark and no one even notices it’s gone.
And yet, somewhere between all those late nights and shared silences, it became impossible not to. Because once she saw the shape of something —love, desire, inevitability— she couldn’t unsee it. And she hates that the worst part isn’t how much they mean to each other, but how little she ever truly fit into their orbit to begin with.
She hangs her jacket on the chair, staring at the wall because it’s easier than facing either of them. Emily moves again. Her boots scrape softly against the carpet. She can sense her before she sees her — that pull, that heat, that tension she carries like a second skin.
When Emily stops beside her, the air changes. She feels the warmth of her presence, the faint trace of her woody perfume, smoke and something else. But she doesn’t dare look up.
Emily’s dangerous like this, sauntering up to her side and putting a hand on her shoulder. It’s not rough — not yet — but the weight of it is enough to make her breath stutter. She can feel the tremor in Emily’s fingertips, the leftover adrenaline that hasn’t burned off yet. "We could be fucking dead. And this one-" Emily squeezes, a little cruelly, on her shoulder, "—wouldn't stop flirting with the fucking guy."
"Stop being mean, Emily," Hotch scolds, and she knows this time there’s something different in his voice. Something Sienna knows as intimately as she knows disappointment — desire, that old twin shadow she’s spent her life learning to recognise in the dark.
Emily grabs her by the chin, arm around her waist to pull her close. "She's a slut. A fucking slut.” Her voice is rough, pitiful — and that makes her chest feel too tight with the contradiction. Because she’s already blinking away tears, feeling the pang of humiliation unfurling warm and sharp right at her centre. And… Something else spreading beneath it.
Hotch comes up to her to wipe away one that falls onto her cheek, "You did good, doll." He says softly.
She can't breathe, all of a sudden. They both crowd her: whilst Hotch holds her hand, Emily rubs slow circles into her waist. She's close and pretty, and captures Sienna’s mouth in a deep kiss. It's rough and tumble and messy, and she pants as she pulls back. Hotch slots his lips into her mouth immediately after, just as hungry. She’s lightheaded as he leads her to the old couch and puts her on her knees.
With a hand in her hair, Emily yanks, pushing her closer to the seam of his slacks — and Sienna does her best to place both of her hands on his thighs and paw at the fabric. She knows how this works. Hotch likes to think he’s got the power, the control over the situation. But in reality, it always comes down to Emily. He’s in charge at work, she’s in charge in bed.
"You're gonna suck his cock, baby. No hands. And I’m gonna watch." Emily orders, unbuttoning her slacks in anticipation. Sienna is looking up at Hotch with big, innocent eyes, and he almost comes right there. Because she’s pretty, she’s pliant, and she’s looking at him in a way that has his heart doing somersaults.
She’s everything that Emily isn’t, soft where Emily is sharp, yielding where Emily is stubborn, every movement a quiet invitation he’s not supposed to notice. He can’t help the way the comparison coils in his chest. Emily is fire — brilliant, unyielding, and impossible to ignore. Sienna is silk — supple, malleable, intoxicating in her innocence. One demands his respect, commands his attention; the other threatens to undo him with a single glance.
He had spent months fighting it — every tilt of Sienna’s head, every slow blink, every soft, teasing smile etched into him like fire. He knew it was wrong, that the BAU had rules for a reason, and yet his body betrayed him, responding before his mind could intervene. His feelings for Sienna didn’t erase the love he held for Emily, but the pull was relentless, intoxicating. And Emily soon enough noticed. Of course she did. She had always known him — every buried fear, every hidden desire, every corner of his soul — and then she was watching him fight a war he hadn’t even admitted to himself. Every glance from Sienna, every soft curve of her lips, twisted through him, igniting a heat that Emily’s brilliance could not quench, reminding him in the cruellest way why they couldn’t, why they shouldn’t, why some temptations were meant only to torment. But eventually, they gave in to it.
Hooking her lip under her teeth, Sienna unbuttons his jeans and palms him through his underwear. It’s immediate, the way Hotch rocks his hips into her touch, head thrown back on the couch and lost in bliss. "Fuck. That's it, beautiful," Hotch sighs.
Emily's got a hand in her own underwear, but her slacks are still on. She’s sitting at the edge of the bed, rubbing lazy circles on her clit as she watches, but she gets impatient as always. Roughly, she wrenches Sienna’s head towards her and growls in her ear, “Hurry the fuck up. I don't have all night."
Sienna’s brain gets short-circuited. She wants to be good, she wants to make up for her mistake – both to Emily and Hotch. She rushes to take out his beautiful, hard, reddened cock and kisses the tip. His head weeps with pre-cum, and she licks it up demurely – eyes fixated on him. The older man writhes on the couch, his hips jumping up to meet her soft, thick lips. When she engulfs his head in the warm heat of her mouth, Emily brings a hand to the back of her hair and fists a handful, pushing her down as far as she can go. Hotch fucks into her mouth roughly, as she chokes and splutters around his pretty cock. Her vision is blurry because of the tears swelling up in her eyes, but she can hear Emily’s ragged breath as she gives the next order.
"T-tell her, how pretty she is, Aaron."
"That's it, gorgeous, you're doing so good for me,” He praises. He's never been one to talk during sex, but he’s learnt over the years how much Emily likes him to be vocal. The dirtier his mouth gets, the wetter her pussy will get for him. “Fuck Sienna, aren't you the prettiest thing..."
She’s bobbing up and down on his length, tears in her eyes at the sting. He's big, hitting the back of her throat with ease, filling her so she can barely breathe — but even if she wanted to, she couldn’t stop. Emily is relentless, pushing her head against him as she moans and whines, sloppy and needy. She’s desperate, unbearably aware of the wetness forming in her underwear, rubbing her thighs in a futile attempt to get any friction against her aching clit, but it’s never enough.
Emily realises, because she knows her — she knows Sienna. She wouldn’t have let anyone come even close to her and Hotch if she didn’t trust them. But she’d spent enough time around Sienna to see exactly who she was. Emily watches her carefully, noting every subtle movement, every sharp intake of breath. Sienna’s discomfort is raw, unguarded, and for a moment, Emily’s chest tightens in a way that is both possessive and curious. Because she knows exactly what Sienna wants before Sienna even allows herself to know it.
And it’s been like this for a long time now. Emily knew from the beginning that Sienna didn’t desire just Hotch — she desired both of them — and the thought sparked something strange and delicious inside her. Sienna had never been just a plaything to fuck and discard; she’s attentive, intelligent, intuitively careful — the kind of person who could slip seamlessly into the delicate orbit of their relationship without breaking it. She wasn’t a threat but a wonderful complement. Quick, observant, playful in ways that don’t undermine Hotch, but instead amplify the intimacy he and Emily share. She’s a spark, a light, an addition that makes what they already have sharper, more intense.
And as Emily watches her, a small, private smile forms on her lips. She knows, just as Hotch does, that there’s more to Sienna than anyone else sees.
Sienna is pulled off with pop, gasping for air with lidded eyes. Hotch desperately pumps himself, head almost touching her thick, plump lips.
"He wants you to strip, honey. He wants to see those beautiful tits when he cums all over you." Achingly slow, Emily motions to take off Sienna’s shirt. It comes off, and then her jeans follow. Blushing now, she’s left in a purple bra and non-matching black panties, with both of them still fully clothed. "Such a pretty little pussy," Emily gives her bare pussy a slap. She’s soaked when Emily dips a finger into her, her tits pressed against her back.
Hotch's possessed at the sight, both of his girls on their knees, Sienna’s tits shuddering as Emily fingers her. All of a sudden, he's cumming, ropes of white painting Sienna’s chest. She’s so close, it aches. She wraps her hands in a bruising grip on his thigh, chasing the snap of a coil at the base of her stomach. She’s so fucking close…
But Emily wrenches her hand out of her pussy. "Not yet," she stops and licks Sienna’s wetness off her own fingers.
“C’mere, rookie,” Hotch pulls her up into a kiss and helps her straddle his lap. Before she can even realise he’s sucking at the skin of her collarbone and tits – and it’s such an obscene sight seeing him lick up his own cum, Sienna thinks she might come without needing to be touched.
When he manhandles her and turns her around, facing Emily, she can't think straight. He rubs the head of his cock against her pretty pussy, smearing her wetness with the flat of his big palm. The older woman is on her knees in front of them both, helping to guide Hotch's fat cock into her entrance. She swallows him up and groans, but he doesn’t move just yet — letting her accommodate to the stretch.
"Tell her how perfect she is, Aaron." She pulls her hair back and plants a wet kiss on Sienna’s clit, making her wriggle. ”She’s been so good for us; she deserves to hear it from you.”
"You're so, so beautiful, swallowing my cock like an angel. F-fuck Em, look how good she takes me."
Emily moans into Sienna’s heat as she writhes on Hotch's cock. He hasn't even started to move, and she can feel herself almost over the edge. His grip is punishing when he starts to fuck into her, and she’s babbling cock-drunk and blissful. "Maybe this time, I'll fuck a baby into you. You want that, Emily? Our girl, plump and round and pretty?"
It's too much. It's all too much. Tears stream down Sienna’s face.
Emily cums with a moan and a hand still inside her slacks, and Sienna follows, gushing into her mouth as Emily laps it up eagerly. Hotch bounces her up and down through it, chasing his second orgasm of the night. The sounds of him fucking into Sienna relentlessly are graphic, and so Emily sits back on her heels to watch him slam into her, his hands hooked under her knees and spreading her legs as far as they'll go.
Sienna unexpectedly tumbles into another orgasm just as quickly when Hotch finally stills and spurts into her. He moans into the crook of her neck as he comes down from his high, softening inside of Sienna. Where they meet, there's a creamy ring around his dick.
Emily kisses her, gentler this time, brushing Sienna’s hair behind her ears. "It wasn't your fault today." She says softly.
Sniffling, Sienna nods.
"She wants you to say it for us, angel. Wasn't your fault." Hotch croons behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, holding her shaking body steady.
"It wasn't my fault."
With that, she can feel Hotch smiling into her skin.
Emily kisses Sienna’s forehead and laughs, “I really hope he put a baby in you.”